Wings of Death

by David Holman

  Kate Townsley took another sip of her wine. ‘What do you think is going on at Brinton’s, Mr Swan?’

  ‘Not quite sure yet. But it’s starting to sound very strange. Perhaps if old Hammer comes up with those passes, we could get a sniff around the Americans. I have never really trusted Americans in designer suits, especially after the Bloomberg affair.’

  Gable leant across to brief their client of this last reference. Explaining that Charles Bloomberg was an American banker, who handled a lot of high ranking British based American officer’s salaries. He would personally visit the bases and meet with these officers on banking business. However, what he was really doing was paying these officers with Soviet funds, in exchange for a few secrets. It is rumoured that he had been given vital information on the US spy plane flights across the Soviet Union, which resulted in the shoot-down incident, but that has never been proved. ‘Anyway, Mr Swan and I confronted this man after one of the US officers he compromised committed suicide by having a hose from his exhaust leading to the inside of his car, while he happily sat dying listening to a Gershwin concert on his radio. Rhapsody in Blue was just finishing when they found him. This Bloomberg chap was clever, there was nothing we could have him for and to top it all, the Yanks closed the case, following the death of their officer. The poor man had been the scapegoat for the others and named as a Soviet sympathiser. We were told officially that was the end of it and our services were dispensed with.’

  Swan concluded the account. ‘However, a few days later, we learned that Bloomberg had gone to work in a bank in West Berlin. He went missing after his first day and according to a source in East Berlin was seen in Freidrichstrasse in the east of the city, climbing into a big black Zil, the official vehicle of Soviet statesman and also used by the GRU and the KGB. Yes, that was about it, exactly how high those pay offs were going is anyone’s guess.’ He picked up the menu booklet on the table.

  ‘Now, shall we order lunch?’

  Following lunch, Swan and Gable drove their female client to Euston Station and Gable hailed a porter to assist with her luggage.

  Kate turned to the two men. ‘Thank you Mr Swan, Mr Gable for your time.’

  Gable nodded. ‘Not at all. I’m sure we will be in touch soon, Miss Townsley.’

  ‘Please be my guests at our home, when you come up to Cumbria. My father would love to meet you both.’

  Swan smiled. ‘We will be delighted. Have a safe journey back to Maryport, Miss Townsley.’

  They had both watched as she had walked alongside the porter as he pushed the blue luggage trolley up the platform to the train. Gable waved as Kate opened the carriage door and disappeared.

  ‘Brave young lady,’ he commented, as after a few minutes, they watched the train ease along the platform as it headed out on its journey to the North West of England.

  *

  The evening atmosphere outside the three hangars at Brinton Aviation was cold and damp, however this did not disrupt the events unfolding as the fuselage of the second BR-101 prototype was being wrapped up by technicians on a flatbed trailer.

  Howard Barnett stood at the side of the truck, scrutinising the spectacle and surveying the tight bounding of the securing ropes. He walked around the trailer, personally checking that the tarpaulin was shrouding and protecting the entire length of the fuselage. Satisfied, he nodded his head in approval. ‘Nice one lads, that’s a grand job well done. Now, let’s get some nice hot coffee down us before we see the convoy off.’

  He ushered his three staff members towards the assembly building, leaving the heavily laden trailer standing on the tarmac in front of the floodlit backdrop of the hangars. As they made the short walk back towards the canteen, Maitland and a few of his American colleagues, all clad in dark double breasted suits, walked towards them.

  ‘Hi Howard. I guess that you guys are all set?’

  Barnett stopped in front of the Americans and smiled.

  ‘Aye, we are just about done Frank. We’re just going in for a cup of coffee, then we’ll be out again to see the convoy off.’

  The tall American grinned. ‘The guys and I thought we would go out for a quick stroll. We seem to spend a lot of time cooped up in that basement. Say, ya don’t mind if we have a quick smoke under the floodlights, do ya Howard?’

  Barnett shook his head. ‘Not at all. Though it’s a bit parky this evening, I doubt you’ll want to be out here too long.’

  Barnett gave a quick wave to the passing Americans and continued with his entourage of technicians through the green double doors.

  Just under twenty minutes later, the grounds outside the hangars were alive with bodies, as the evening schedule proceeded. The Americans smoked in conversation close to the back of the trailer, while Barnett in his black wool overcoat and trilby hat enjoyed a joke with the driver, Jim Lewis and Bill Wright, a uniformed security guard next to the cab.

  Stubbing out his cigarette under his highly polished loafer, Frank Maitland made a gesture to his two colleagues. Barnett suddenly noticed that the Americans had disappeared from the back, but could clearly see their shadows moving at the far side in the floodlit lights. Being of the suspicious type, he decided to check on them, and walked down the side of the trailer to the back, still keeping his eyes on the moving shadows. As he came into their view, he noticed a sudden movement as one of the Americans, a stocky Texan named Jake Brannigan, stood up from a crouching position and, seeing Barnett approach, Maitland acknowledged the Chief Designer’s sudden appearance.

  ‘Hi Howard. Mr Brannigan here was just admiring the handiwork from your guys. Looks like they made a good job with the rope.’

  Barnett looked at the rope, placed his brown, leather-gloved fingers around it and gave it a pull. ‘Got to make sure no one can see what’s underneath, haven’t we Frank?’

  The tall American rubbed his hands together. ‘We’ll be going back inside now. Beginning to freeze our butts off out here.’

  Barnett chuckled. ‘You’re far too used to that Californian sunshine that you lot keep bragging about. That’s your problem, Frank.’

  Barnett turned around and walked back to the front of the trailer. As he left them, he could have sworn he heard Brannigan’s deep, southern-state drawl carried to him by the direction of the wind, but then shrugged it off as yet another example of his middle age that was rapidly creeping towards him becoming a pensioner.

  At ten minutes to ten, Lewis started the ignition in his cab, and after waiting for an Army Land Rover to move off in front and take position as lead escort, pushed his right foot down on the pedal to warm the engine.

  On the blow of a whistle, he put his left hand on the handbrake lever and moved off, following the leading vehicle as part of a convoy of three.

  As all three vehicles moved past him as Barnett stood waving them out of the main gates. On the other side, they were joined by a pair of RAF Police motorcycle outriders.

  Chapter 6

  It was just after three thirty AM when Heidi Barnett, lying in bed next to her snoring husband, gradually opened her eyes. She was born in Murren, in the province of Jungfrau in Switzerland in 1921. Following her mother Elke’s sudden death to pneumonia when Heidi was only seven years old, she had been raised by her father and grandparents.

  Her father, Franz Hellinger, an aircraft engine designer for Daimler Benz, had been spotted by Sir Ronald Brinton. Not favouring the way that this new German Nazi Party was becoming increasingly popular, especially with the youth, he feared that he would soon be assigned to assist with their ever increasing war machine production. So without too much persuasion, Brinton had coaxed him with a good salary offer to join his team in England. In 1937, he was given a young apprentice engineer by the name of Howard Barnett to work with and it was not long before they became good social friends as well as work colleagues. The following year, fearing that Europe may once again be in the grip of war, he arranged for his only daughter to live with him in the village of Dearham, bordering the sit
e of the Brinton works. Later, he had introduced Heidi to Howard, and after soon growing fond of each other, they started to meet romantically.

  Heidi and Howard were married at St Patrick’s Catholic Church in Maryport on April 14th, 1946.

  Hellinger worked hard at Brinton, and after being appointed Head of Brinton Aviation Engine Division, he oversaw the jet engine design for the R-71 bomber prototype. Excited about this project, he had approached Sir Ronald to ask him if he could be part of the crew for the low level flight tests at Pembridge. This was agreed, and on October 10th 1951, dressed in a dark blue Brinton Aviation flying suit, he allowed Squadron Leader Michael Cuthbert to check the chin strap of his flying helmet and guide him with his oxygen hose, showing him how it plugged in to the R-71’s air system.

  During the initial stages of the flight, Hellinger was amazed as he experienced at first hand the performance of the aircraft, as it took a few low passes over the airfield. He then listened carefully to Fred Dobson, the flight engineer sitting next to him, advising him to brace himself, as the pilot was about to take the machine up to ten thousand feet and then dive to five hundred feet for a simulated ‘toss bombing’ run. In just a few moments, Hellinger could feel the ‘G’ force pushing him into his seat, as the R-71 began its dive.

  On the ground, Howard and Heidi had watched with the technicians and camera crew as the distant, small metallic winged insect buzzed down, rapidly increasing in size and swooping closer to them.

  As the aircraft dived, the roar of the four Brinton BRE-100J gas turbine engines could be heard distinctively. The people watching the spectacle began to cover their ears, as the sudden sonic booms indicated that the R-71 had reached Mach One, the speed of sound.

  The explosion that followed could be heard in the town of Leominster ten miles from the airfield. Everyone stood in shock, witnessing the R-71 disintegrating at less than nine hundred feet above their heads. The resulting debris fell on the threshold of Runway 23 and on to the arable crop field of neighbouring Kensley Farm.

  Twenty-two minutes later, when the airfield ambulance returned from the crash scene, Heidi had buried herself into the chest of her new husband, in reaction to the driver shaking his head to the officials eagerly waiting on the tarmac for news of any survivors.

  In the wake of this tragedy, Howard consoled his wife through her grief and a few years on, happiness only returned to them both with the birth of their son, David Franz Barnett, on 1st August 1955.

  *

  Her husband was deeply asleep when Heidi nudged him in their four poster double bed. She prodded him on the arm. ‘Liebschen, the telephone is ringing.’

  He slowly opened his eyes and hearing the ringing sound of the downstairs telephone, he turned and looked at his alarm clock. It was 4.05 a.m. He got out of bed, put on his navy blue wool dressing gown and walked downstairs. Five minutes later, he stepped back into the bedroom. Heidi, sitting up in bed, had waited for her husband to return. As he entered the room, she noticed an ashen look on his face. ‘What is it Howard?’ She looked puzzled.

  Barnett looked at his wife, finding it difficult to extract words from his dry mouth. ‘There’s been an accident, my love. With the convoy. Trailer’s turned over while going through Shobdon. They’re not sure what damage has been done to the Rapier, and a car is coming for me in half an hour.’ He managed a brief smile at Heidi. ‘Be a love and put the kettle on. Looks like I have a long journey down to Pembridge.’

  *

  The Furrows was a former stately home now owned by the Ministry of Defence, just a few miles from Winston Churchill’s old country retreat Chartwell in the Weald of Kent. The house and grounds were frequently visited by the Premier, as he consulted with the brave men and women of the Special Operations Executive being trained there.

  After the war, the place had become the weekend recreation ground for officers of the three services, with golf, fencing, archery, shooting and fishing being the main leisure activities available. Inside an annex building close to the house, there was a fully equipped gymnasium and a swimming pool. The main features to grace the interior of this twenty-eight bedroomed 18th century mansion were a banqueting hall and a billiard room. What was not in evidence however, was the high security that surrounded the site. Television cameras and dog patrols operated day and night, and the permanent presence of armed security guards put finality to the uncertain Cold War menace that threatened to lurk and listen in the grounds.

  On this sunny, cold early Saturday morning, the car park in front of the house was full, proving that the military gentry of the nation was in residence this weekend. A highly polished silver 1958 Rolls Royce Phantom was one of the many classic vehicles on the shingled parking area shining in the morning sun.

  Driving his three-year old racing green Triumph TR-4 convertible, Swan turned off the A25 into the main entrance and showed his pass to the uniformed guard at the gate. After parking, he opened up the boot and retrieved a small overnight bag and shotgun case, then walked up to the front entrance of the house.

  Approaching the reception desk, he looked at the concierge, clad in a white tunic, who greeted him and handed him the attendance book.

  ‘Has Air Commodore Higgins arrived yet?’

  The concierge was about to answer when Swan suddenly heard a gruff voice to the side of him.

  ‘Good Morning, Alex my boy.’

  Swan turned to see that Higgins was typically dressed for shooting in a Harris Tweed Hunting jacket and short legged trousers and gaiters, with a matching deer stalker hat, beige woollen socks and brown brogues.

  ‘I’ve brought along two guns, a six bore, and old Bessie, my double twelve bore Purdey. Now Alex my lad, lead the way to breakfast, I hear the smoked mackerel is excellent at the moment.’

  Higgins rubbed his huge hands at the thought of this culinary feast. After a hearty breakfast of mackerel, Eggs Benedict, rye toast and preserves, accompanied by the finest Columbian roast coffee, the shooting party made their way out to the front of the mansion, where the Land Rovers waited to transport them to the designated shooting area.

  *

  Before the driver could climb out and open it for him, the Chief Designer of Brinton Aviation opened the door of the company’s grey 1959 Daimler Majestic Major and stepped out into an overcast morning onto the RAF Pembridge service area tarmac. Barnett walked over to the blue tarpaulin resting on five wooden pallets in front of the hangars, lifted up the heavy canvas and surveyed the sight beneath. He was soon joined by a young technician in RAF overalls, holding a clipboard.

  ‘Mr Barnett sir, Sergeant Kevin Nunn. I’m one of the service technicians.’ The small yet stocky-built NCO held is hand out to greet him.

  ‘Good morning, Kevin. Have you a damage report?’

  The technician held the clipboard in front of him and was just about to read from it, when he paused and passed it to Barnett. The big Yorkshireman read through the notes to himself and shook his head a few times.

  ‘The crack in the wing root is the main worry, sir. It will need a completely new support strut,’ he concluded.

  Barnett shook his head again.

  ‘Aye, lad. We’ll be lucky to have her up in the air by July.’

  He handed back the clipboard to the technician and looked around. ‘Where are the engines being kept?’

  ‘We’ve just finished removing them, they’re over in Hangar Two. Miraculously the good news is that the starboard unit is undamaged, I guess the separation casing protected it.’ The technician then took on a look of disappointment. ‘As for the port engine, it looks as though this got most of the impact when the trailer turned over. The casing is cracked, the turbine blades are buckled, and there’s some internal damage to the chamber. I think we can say she’s a goner.’ The technician abruptly finished his narrative, allowing the news to sink in.

  Howard Barnett shook his head. ‘We didn’t need this to happen, not with Government White Paper due out next month. We’re over budget as it is a
nd that’s not even taking P-Two here into account, let alone the bloody damage to it.’

  The technician just stood, not really knowing what to say to this.

  Barnett sighed. ‘Any road, there’s nowt much we can do right now. Let’s get something to eat, I’m starving. Been on the road from Ellenborough for nearly three hours, and I could murder a bacon butty. We’ll look at the engines after breakfast.’

  ‘A bacon butty sounds an excellent idea, sir,’ agreed Nunn.

  The two men then turned and walked towards the direction of the mess building. ‘Where’s Jim Lewis, the driver of the trailer?’ Barnett enquired.

  ‘He’s over in the mess, sir. He’s okay, just a bit shaken up that’s all. The poor sod was pulled out of the cab upside down.’

  *

  Swan watched as the black clay disc shattered. ‘Good shot, old boy.’

  He could hardly hear himself above the sounds from the guns, now almost going off in unison down the firing line. Swan called out for a clay to be pulled and gracefully eyed it streaking into the sky, He lined up his gunsight and was satisfied with his shooting.

  Higgins also watched it. ‘Looks like you may beat your score, Alex my boy, especially with shooting like that,’ Higgins remarked, reloading his gun.

  They continued for another two and half hours with more successful shot clays. At the end, their shoot had gone well; Swan had just failed to meet his personal best, but Higgins was in a very jovial mood, as he had beat his 47 achieving 52 on the singles. Swan and the others of the shooting party had to endure his boastful blow by blow account of every shot, as the Land Rovers headed back to the hotel.

  *

  It was almost lunchtime when Howard Barnett sat looking through his notebook opposite Jim Lewis. He had been talking to the driver of the transported load for almost an hour. The thin, wiry man was still shaken, clutching his third white ceramic mug of tea.